


Green

by Charlie_Parker



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie_Parker/pseuds/Charlie_Parker
Summary: A smutty request. What happens when tensions run high between two high profile assassins?





	Green

Sunday Night, Downtown Manhattan.  
“You’re positive of this, Anatoly?” Bershov shook, red phone to his ear.  
“It’s been half a month since Nikolai and I have seen the Baba Yaga and Rusalka exit and enter the same building, half of the time together.” The younger informant responded in the language of his Russian home.  
“Continue your watch. Tell me if anything new comes up.” The mobster hung up. The smoke in the air floating out of his fat-rolled cigar, intoxicating the spacious office of his New York highrise. Clearing his throat, he dialed another number. “Yes, it’s Bershov. We have a problem.”

Monday Afternoon, Abandoned Textile Factory, Harlem  
A punch to the face, the cracking of bone, your target spits out a tooth at your foot.  
“That’s cute.”  
“Fuck off.”  
“I will if you tell me where you hid those pretty necklaces you stole from my client.”  
“I didn’t steal any fucking diamonds. I don’t know how to tell you.”  
Catching the rat was easy enough. The Russians didn’t call you the Rusalka for nothing. Luring men to their deaths was much more fun than the simple and very public bullet to the head. You couldn’t help it, playing with your food was second nature. That’s why you were here, in this textile factory abandoned in 1913 after a fire killed every one of the workers inside and the municipality never found funds to renovate it. It had become a macabre nest of broken R-rated dreams and murder.  
Bending down, your face was inches away from your target’s, voice soft as silk, “Honey, think this through. If you don’t tell me, you’ll never see your treasures again. You’re useless in general, but you’re even more useless if you’re acting all shy around me and not telling me where you put the goddamn jewelry, Lucio.”

Monday Afternoon, On The Roof Of A Building Across From The Abandoned Textile Factory, Harlem  
“What the fuck are you doing, Y/N.” John Wick’s voice breathed out, the exhale smoothing along the side of his preferred sniper. This job didn’t feel right. Last night, during dinner, both you and John had gotten a call for a closed contract five minutes apart for the same amount of money from different contractors. Just for good manners, neither of you discussed the details of contracts with each other. The problem was, for John to collect on his contract, you would need to get your head out of the line of fire. Didn’t you just tell him this morning you would be running a few errands?

Monday, End of the Afternoon, Abandoned Textile Factory, Harlem  
You were the first to admit you had a flair for the dramatic, it was part of what kept you coming back to the life of a hired gun. That being said, you weren’t expecting Lucio’s head to become tomato soup when you turned around to display your knife collection. Your first instinct was to duck under a table and get your own gun. A buzzing in your pocket stopped you mid-aim. The figure on the top of the building where the shot had come from was gone. Pulling out your phone, you weren’t sure what to think to see it was a text from John that said ‘Don’t shoot’

Monday, An Hour From the Evening, Abandoned Textile Factory, Harlem  
“I thought you said you had some chores to run.” He growled.  
“You said you were responding to a closed contract.” If his anger was scary, yours was downright horrifying.  
“I am.”  
“So was I!”  
He stayed silent, thinking it through. How often did a coincidence happen in their line of work?  
“John! He was about to tell me $2 million worth of information!”  
“2 million?”  
“Yes! What the fuck is your deal?!”  
“My deal?”  
“Stop repeating everything I say as a question!”  
“Repeating ever-” He didn’t have time to finish his lightly comedic sentence. You’d already begun walking away. “Where are you going?” His long strides catching up to yours.  
“Home. I’m gonna need a shower pretty soon.”  
John wasn’t going to say no to that. He knew very well what was coming.

Monday, Early Evening, Generous Studio in Downtown Manhattan  
The studio you had rented out was well equipped for both of your jobs. A secret weapons room hidden behind a bookcase, a small boxing ring you had installed (because why not), and the more common “I’m not an assassin” stuff- bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette. But right now, you were eyeing the boxing ring more than anything else.

Above all in your relationship with John, you never wanted to hurt each other. It just so happened that assassins didn’t have a better way of expressing the sort of rage that was burning through both of your veins. Without a word, you both began taking off your jackets and shirts, putting on foam helmets and lightly-padded fingerless gloves to pair with undershirts and underwear.

“You lied to me.” John’s voice came out as a growl, using his teeth to strap on a glove.  
“You decapitated my target.” You weren’t much better either, jumping in the ring far too easily. “Condoms?”  
“We’re out.”  
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”  
“Does it matter?”  
Your anger was too high to even acknowledge the question. The minute John had a foot in the ring, you knocked him down with a side sweep of your leg to his ankles. Anticipating this, he jumped and on his way down grabbed your ankle, twisting your leg so your body was face down on the mat, knocking the helmet off your head. Leaning over you, her made to grab your arms but your elbow met his jaw before that, knocking him off his axis.  
For the second that he had blacked out, John found himself in the compromised position of being on his back, your thighs holding down his hips from jolting himself up.  
“Don’t fucking touch me.” You gasped as his hands reached instinctively for your hips. Your words ended in a high pitched whine as his fist grabbed a handful of your hair and he brought you down to where he had been forced down. With a knee on your throat and the other between your legs, you were in no position to rebel.  
“You like that, don’t you?” John was panting, dragging his thigh flush against the heat between your legs. Fighting someone to hurt them was one thing, but fighting someone with the clear intention of not hurting them badly was another entirely different effort.  
He felt your chin against his knee as you tried to nod, making him tighten his hold on your hair “Color?” He murmured quietly.  
“Green.”  
Feeling his legs getting sore from the awkward position they were in, he leaned back on the one between your legs to relieve pressure on the one on your throat.  
John got a wicked smile on his face “I think I need a cold shower.”  
“Not if I’m in it.” The smile you gave him told him everything he needed to know. It was just enough time for you to be able to push him off with your legs and, as payback, pulling on the inky black hair that made it out of the styrofoam helmet to make him crash on to the floor beside you.  
The ravenous kiss you shared could only be a product of the aggression towards each other, more teeth on lips and claws down exposed skin than feathery declarations of love like it had been this morning.  
Your hands ripped off the helmet from his head just as his tore apart your sweat soaked camisole. The sweat on your bare chest glistened, making so when John pressed his naked chest to yours, the skin stuck together like magnets. One of your hands reached down to feel the tent in his briefs causing your imagination to run wild.  
“Fuck me, John.” The breathy words that fell from your kiss-swollen lips tumbled out without your notice.  
John nodded, making no clear verbal affirmation except a grunt when it took the two of you to peel off the claustrophobic material of his underwear.  
Typically when it came to your underwear, if John was taking his time he would have used his teeth. There was no time for that now. Joining your camisole, the shreds of what was your panties fell limp outside of the boxing ring.  
“Do you have to ruin all my clothes?” You murmured, spreading your legs and bringing them around his hips.  
John groaned a low laugh “Are you really complaining?” One hand bolstering up your naked thigh as he leaned over you.  
“No.” Your smile didn’t last long before you felt his tip slide into you, becoming fully seated after a few hollow and slow thrusts in to acclimate you once more to his size.  
With your head thrown back, John reached over to leave bites and bruises along your neck, leaving you to utter out the most delectable moans.  
He pulled out almost completely, making you remember what it’s like to not have him in you, before slamming back into you and groaning loudly with the effort it took him. He did this a few times, slowly gaining momentum before he was fucking you completely senseless.  
You tightened around him to feel more of his thrusts, so very close to coming undone. Selfishly, you somehow made the lucid choice not to warn him. You could tell he was close too. It had been ten minutes and John’s breathing was getting ragged, his moans more frequent, and his thrusts less precise. One of your arms was reaching out to hold on to anything solid around you for fear of somehow losing your grounding. The other arm was leaving red scars along his back, cutting through the landscape of tattoos.  
The second after you lost control and let yourself fall into the orgasmic hysteria, you notice John shudder and felt him cum inside you. His thrusts slowed and he carefully pulled out of you. John collapsed beside you, his chest heaving with labored breaths. When you got up, nothing needed to be said. He followed you to the shower.


End file.
